He looked offended by the thought. “That would not be right. It is a Thing. If they disagree, the Thing will disband, and we form a battle line. Then, if he somehow holds off, the two of them will work it out. They’ll have a—”
“White tent,” I said, “I know.”
“A war amongst Hermanduri is an affair most unfortunate,” he said. “We have Woden’s blessings, but so does the enemy, for they are kin. Hermanduri have no obligations towards the other tribes, but when we fight our own, it must be according to customs. It is true.”
I nodded.
The Romans were moving their slave wagons.
The man hummed. “They waste the slaves. They do. Some died of hunger, and others, less valuable ones, are left to rot. Some they trade back to a richer family that come here to bargain, but most are just a trade commodity not only to be shipped south. They buy new people every day from the Hermanduri. The better ones they would make sure were well fed and in good health, but some?” He spat. “If they run out of room, they actually kill some. They open up the cage, drag the dead out, and then, judging by the value, they also remove weaker people and take them to the woods.” He leaned towards me and winked. “They don’t come back. They do not value lives of men.”
Bero was frowning. “And why are they tolerated?”
The man winked. “The vitka might know. They were barely tolerated when Red Raven was a great man. There was a brisk trade in slaves and other things.”
Bero squinted. “Other things?”
“Northern treasures,” he whispered. “It is so. True.”
“What are they?” Bero insisted.
He shook his head. “Tears and riches. But Red Raven…I know not a thing. See, the slaves?”
We turned to watch. The wagons were moving, save for one. Some slaves were dragged out of it. Two were fighting back weakly and were brutally whipped. All were kept in chains and kicked and dragged to the woods. New slaves, fresh ones were pushed in, and soldiers followed the ones who had been sent to walk to the woods, as the last wagon moved after the others.
The man made a throat-slitting sign. “The wagons will be back, empty tomorrow. But they kill those weaker bastards. It is wrong.”
“It seems,” Ingulf said, massaging his side, “that Roman ways are much different from ours.”
Indeed, a slave was usually well-treated in Germania. One still had their rights, the ones given to them by Woden, and could expect to be treated like men. The Roman ones were no different from a hated draft horse or an old cow.
For Rome?
Life meant nothing.
Bero was twitching and looking on, thinking about his damned son. “Those run the place,” said Bero, as he pointed a finger at two Romans, who were moving towards Akkas’s throng of men.
“One is Antius,” the wolf-fur said. “The fat one. The meek, silent one is Marcus. He is just a mouse. The fat one is a shit who looks like he never had a mother. Spawned from a pig’s arse, that one.”
I nodded. Antius was a fat man, indeed, with a black hair and a swagger as he walked. He wore a tunic of white and rich belts, and his shoes were red. There was a thin one as well, Marcus, who seemed to do nothing but run after the large man, and they had three of the peculiar, well-armed men guarding them.
We didn’t see any of the gear the Romans supposedly dealt out.
Bero was thinking the same. “They might hold them in the village or the hall. The tent?”
“Tell me, friend,” I asked the wolf-fur, who looked bored enough to die, “where do the men get such fine armor?”
He turned and looked up at the greater war-chiefs. “From the Romans. From Akkas, but he gets them from Romans. Why, do you think he farts such things? No, no.”
“I don’t see where they hold them,” I wondered. “Where—”
The man looked at me with pity. “You have a fine horse, a fine armor, a great sword, and you need more? I need such armor. It is meant for the high and the mighty, and that is all. I am only sure they won’t hold it here. They would get raided and robbed, Akkas, Sarmatians, and Roman guards, or not, it would of course be stolen.”
“They have another camp?” I asked.
He squinted. “The south is closed. The land of Akkas is not open for men to hunt or travel in. The edges of the mountains swallow the curious, and that should answer your question.”
“Akkas travels there?” Ingulf asked.
The man looked mortified. “Of course. Every day. The hall was Heinrich’s. Akkas will live there now, but he rides there every evening with his Sarmatians. If there are more Romans in there, I know not.”
I was watching Akkas. The man was walking back and forth, his mass of guards with him. Now, there were bedraggled men hopping next to him, and I was sure they were chanting. There were three, and one, a taller man in a cowl, was nodding at Akkas, who was talking animatedly.
The wolf-fur knew I would want to know. “Vitka. Rain-Brow, Ulrich, Dinag, and the calm, cowled one, Stick-Wolf. They love him, Akkas. Romans have other gifts than weapons. The men love pretty slaves, for sacrifice and for humping. Jewelry, wine.”
“Wine?” I asked.
“Wine,” he said. “I’ve not had it. Some foreign drink. Supposedly good, but I doubt it. I do.”
The vitka were now bowing, and then, they walked down from the hall and kneeled, facing the Red Raven. They were mumbling, holding wands, and throwing stones and twigs.”
The wolf-fur hugged himself, and men were speaking softly all around us. “Curses. They are cursing the enemy. The man…him. Red Raven.”
“Red Raven has vitka?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Those were his vitka, once.”
I nodded and looked to the north. A vast horde of red-shielded men was marching under their banners. There were still loyal men in Heinrich's troop, and great banners with Sunna, Mani, and stars were painted in leather and held high. Each such standard told a tale of a hero, of a champion, of a clan, or a family, and the men beneath them were proud of them.
Red Raven’s was a red cloth, and a crude raven was painted on it. There, too, was tied the hair of his enemy, and I wondered who they had been.
I turned to look at Akkas. His standard was held high now, and it was comprised of a trio of skulls, staring forward from a pole. It was simple, deadly, and Akkas didn’t look like a coward.
He looked determined. He was also surrounded by his men, but looked brave.
Ingulf was chortling. “I wonder how many decisions they made during the previous days. How many feuds they solved? It seems to me they will have a thousand new ones.”
I nodded. While they governed the war, they fought amongst themselves; it was not usual to be prepared for one in such great numbers during a Thing. Usually, it was a place of peace. In that, the Thing of the Hermanduri was not like those any the Goths or the Saxons or even the Svea were in habit of holding.
This one would end up in a bloodshed.
Often a Thing was held during a festival, any feast for the gods, at the end of a raiding season, when the Mani was fullest, or even before war, and you could feel the gods were watching. I saw the Red Raven, flanked by dozens of his men, ride up to the mound of Badurad, and there, he let his horse kick and rear, while he held a sword high, the red smeared helmet making his head look like a bearded skull.
Ingulf laughed. “A come-what-may sort of a man that!”
The Hermanduri of Akkas raised their spears, yelled, and banged the spears on their shields, calling Heinrich names. They called him a woman, a cur, a cowardly fool.
I cannot remember seeing a cruder folk, and coming from the north, from the campfires of the Svear, and the fish-shores of the Mare Gothonia, it was saying a lot.
They looked wealthy enough.
They were, after all, the lords and war-chiefs of the nation and their best men. Rome had touched many of them. Rome had given them weapons, even Roman coins. Large Roman horses were there in the edges of the throngs of people
, held by warriors. For those men who served Akkas and were his closest men, the wealth of armor was far clearer than the others. These men had men standing behind them. Those men were their champions; fierce, deadly, and all wore Roman armor.
The wealth was there. The men were warriors all. And still, the people did not make one proud. They were practical killers, the lot. They were no noble Goths or powerful Semnones.
None of them looked kind and noble.
Ingulf was likely thinking the same. We would find a place amongst them, and perhaps we would be made welcome, but he wasn’t happy, looking and listening on the men.
The men around us moved, scaring our horses, and we found ourselves deep in the Hermanduri ranks.
I smiled at the wolf-fur and jumped down from my horse. I thrust the reins to Bero, as did Ingulf. Pushing forward, we both watched Akkas. He had sat down on a stool and had probably been preparing all night. His hundred war-chiefs were standing. As if he had no cares in the world, Akkas was now hunkered over a meal on a wooden plate, his eyes never leaving a tall, cowled, scraggly bearded man on his hunches next him. It was probably Stick-Wolf. They were talking with the short, hooded man who had spoken with me, Tyr.
“First rank?” Ingulf asked, itching for a fight. Bero was pushing in after him, still on his horse, pulling ours. I nodded, and we were jostling and pushing forward, drawing ire from men, chiefs, and their guards. I saw Tamura, standing behind Akkas, and her eyes gleamed with amusement as she saw me coming. I stopped at the front ranks, kept there, and saw the red mass of men very close. There, fifty men were riding past the thousands, and Heinrich was amongst them.
The jeers stopped.
Then, there was a deep silence. It was followed by a ripple-like sea of whispers.
“He is mad as shit,” Ingulf said. “You think he can do this?”
“Woden aid us,” Bero whispered. “Let him keep his head.”
“Lok will help us, if none else,” I told him, and he looked pale with worry. “He will hold his end.”
The great Hermanduri rode in. His riders followed him. Sarmatians road past Akkas and around him, pushing away chiefs and men. The red shields stopped in their thousands, but Heinrich kept coming. Lances and framea were high above their heads, and the Red Raven’s standard was flying next to him. Heinrich himself was draped in a cape of fox fur, under which he wore a scale armor painted in red. A long sword was on his side, and his shield was held by a powerful warrior. Bertilo stayed with the thousands.
Heinrich stopped his men, not far from Akkas. Then, he rode back and forth before the vitka, angrily. He roared and spurred the horse, and the mumbling vitka shrieked and ran away. Men around me were silent and upset and didn’t so much as twitch.
Heinrich was tall as his horse and brooding like an upset god. He let his horse ride back and forth, back and forth, until he finally stopped it and threw down to the mud a thin silvery diadem. “Is that,” he roared, “what you seek?”
Akkas ate and shrugged. He eyed the man and the muddy diadem. Akkas leaned back on his seat and gave away his plate to one of the women of Iazyges, and then, he waved his hand towards Heinrich. “Is that something I want?” He laughed. “That was a silver-crown of a former king. You think that makes one a Thiuda? Nay. Keep it.”
“I do not think it makes a man a Thiuda,” Heinrich said bitterly. “I did wonder if you do. You are, after all, sleeping in my hall.”
Akkas opened his hands in a conciliatory manner. “A guest. Your guest. For now. That is all. Welcome, brother. You have been gone a few days. One began to worry if something had happened to you, or that you forgot what today must be decided.”
Heinrich gave Tamura a withering look. “No. Nothing much happened to me. I had matters to attend to,” he answered, not making a move to get down from his horse. “Important business. As important as dealing with petty cow-thieves and other scum who bother the Thing with their crimes and lies.”
“So,” Akkas smiled. “While I dealt with such mundane matters, I trust your business is concluded? Are you here to discuss the rest of our summer and fall?”
The Red Raven glanced at the Sarmatians behind Akkas and shrugged. “Concluded? I paid back some debts, and I feel like it is concluded. Aye, I am here to discuss our war with Quadi.”
“Feuds are important. They must be settled,” Akkas answered. “None more so than the ones that stop us from concluding our war successfully. So,” Akkas nodded, “will you join the chiefs as we speak?”
Heinrich looked around the semi-circle. No seats were evident, or a place to parlay in honor. Akkas sat; rest stood.
The Red Raven stayed on his horse. “I’ll sit right here while we speak.”
Akkas leaned forward and frowned. “I have done all the work. You, the Thiuda, should have dealt with most of these issues. Do you know,” he asked softly, “friend, how hard it is to feed thousands? Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep them happy and drunk, while their leaders have agreed to nothing? I have done most of it. And now, you refuse to get down from your horse?”
Heinrich shrugged. “I’m not one to set up tables, Akkas. That is woman’s work. I merely empty tables and make them mine. I shall lead, and you keep making the plans for supplies and bandages. It has worked well before.”
Akkas choked and then grinned like a skeleton might, briefly, suggesting he found Heinrich amusing but also a fool. He shifted on his arse, wiped his sweaty fingers on a wolf-pelt, and nodded for the ring of men.
“I, also, do not set tables, and perhaps I, too, learn how to empty and take them,” he explained. “My men will be ready. Nearly six thousand of them. Many used to sit in your table, see?”
It was a stinging insult, and the crowd was holding its breath.
Heinrich looked around and spat. “All the craven chiefs are here, is all I see. Perhaps you are missing some?”
Akkas was nodding. “Most all are here. As are yours. Finally. Though,” he laughed, “they come boiling for a fight.” He looked around and took a deep breath. “You are right. My chiefs have noted that two of my friends have not arrived. They were men who once served you. One was a man who married a woman you had meant for your boy. He is not here.”
“They were always tardy shits,” Heinrich said. “Never could get anywhere in time. Too busy scheming and sleeping.”
“Will they arrive, Heinrich?” Akkas asked sternly. “Will they be here?”
Heinrich was now brooding. “And now you think I can read the sticks and the stones. Ask the vitka I just scattered like rats. I know them well, so perhaps you can ask someone else. They know as well as a shepherd would, no? Ask Stick-Wolf. He loves your tables these days, so he might work for such favors?”
Every eye turned to the older man next to Akkas, his face covered, his black beard heavy on his chest. He was holding a bag of what must have been sticks to read the future and a collection of magical stones, spell-tools of a man close to Woden, Tiawaz, and the others. Galdr spells he could sing and predict the future, or at least he claimed so. They all did. The vitka who had fled were next to him and looked at him with envy. He was one of the law-speakers, and if he favored Akkas, his influence was great.
Akkas grinned and leaned close to the vitka who were standing next to him. “Can you tell me if my men will arrive here, or if they shall die, or are, indeed, already dead? Can you do this, Stick-Wolf?”
Stick-Wolf was an unhappy man. He frowned under his cowl and was bothered by the attention. He was Akkas’s man, but I wondered how many years he had been playing such games and knew better than to pick a side. The others had no such qualms. They were all whispering to Akkas, but Akkas ignored them. “Well?” he demanded.
“I can ask the gods, surely,” he muttered. “Woden will answer, perhaps. I have a wand of spruce, and it will do well to find answers to the questions of death and life. The wood-things that are watching, will guide me. They will guide me forth to the answers. Alas, I cannot say anything for certain. I fear th
ese spirits, and the dead, and they fear nobody.”
Men were silent, and some were shuddering.
I licked my lips. They were dry.
I had seen such things.
When I had escaped the Bear-Island and the witch, I had suffered terribly and had traveled with the spirits. I had suffered to find such answers, and they had shown me great many things. They had shown me Lok. They were, to me, real, terrifying and evil, all of them, and Stick-Wolf, I thought, might be a real thing, since he seemed reluctant and terrified. No, he wasn’t happy about the two squabbling chiefs, nor was he happy about the spirits he was asked to contact.
Heinrich swatted at a fly. “Enough. It is enough. I swear by All Father, I have not touched your little men or their families. My word on it. I do not lie, ever. But aye. None of it matters. Let us get to the matter at hand. Send the vitka away. I’ll cut to the bone, Akkas. Here it is. You wish to settle in the Hall of the Wolf. I have held sway there for many years, and I object. You will call yourself Thiuda this season. So will I. You would be the war-king—”
“I have the men, Heinrich,” Akkas said simply, as the Stick-Wolf retreated away. “You do not have the men. I do. Such men, by rights, decide on who rules.”
Heinrich spat. “You bribed my men and think you can simply claim you are the Thiuda? That I take it like a bitch? You want more than my men. You would have my head too. I discovered that last night. You or your allies.”
Silence. Men were watching the Romans, who were moving near the Sarmatians. Then, Akkas shrugged.
“We have endured each other for ages, and I know you are a suspicious one. And I am not sure why you think Rome might want you dead,” Akkas said with raw emotion. “They do not meddle in our affairs.”
There were chuckles and laughter in both camps. With the weapons and armor so visible, it was clearly a brazen lie. Akkas shook his head and raised a hand to silence the men. He managed it, but only so. “Your head? If you do not see the need to change things in the land, aye, then we might, indeed, come to that. We might have to fight. I am not going back to what was. I have the men, and it is my turn to lead. You have a third of our men. I have two and more thousand more than you do. If you want, we shall draw the battle lines right now.”
The Wolf Page 8
